


Nothing Else Matters

by Howlingdawn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers, but i fix it almost immediately, fair warning that this does open up with his death scene, hence the not using warninga, kinda counts as mcd but also not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlingdawn/pseuds/Howlingdawn
Summary: WANDAVISION 1X05 SPOILERS.In Sokovia, Pietro dies.But when he falls, he's... alive? And definitely not in Sokovia anymore.
Relationships: Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff
Comments: 6
Kudos: 100





	Nothing Else Matters

**Author's Note:**

> I like Peter. I do. I'm happy he's in the MCU. But I wanted him to show up in LITERALLY ANY OTHER WAY that didn't ruin the reunion I've waited six years for. So I fixed it

_Ow._

It seemed like an understatement, considering how many bullets he had felt tear through his body. But the pain – the world – was fading almost faster than he could process, so really, a simple “ow” was all the situation called for.

And he didn’t want his pain to be Wanda’s last memory of him.

So he looked up, up at Clint and Costel, and the relief, the smile, the joke came easily, naturally, at seeing them alive. “You didn’t see that coming.”

As the light faded, he fell.

When he hit the ground, it was night.

“Ow!”

The impact sent pain ricocheting through his wounds, but- …not all of them?

He rolled into his back, off the arm he had crushed, distantly wondering why shattered stone wasn’t crunching beneath him, and pressed a hand to his chest, his stomach, places he _knew_ had been hit by several bullets. But while his arms and legs burned, the wounds that had killed him… were gone.

_What just happened?_

“Clint?” he rasped.

No one answered him.

In fact, he didn’t hear anything at all. No one screaming, no one shouting orders, nothing that sounded anything like the fierce battle he had just been in.

Lifting his head to look around told him why, but didn’t clear things up at _all_.

_This… isn’t Sokovia._

He lay in the middle of an empty road, its untarnished pavement a far cry from his home’s cracked and cobblestone streets. The houses, the yards, the white picket fences… aside from the eerie stillness of it all, everything reminded Pietro of the old American sitcoms he and Wanda had watched when they were little.

_Where am I?_

Bracing for the pain, he pushed himself upright. “Hello?” he called.

The darkness swallowed up his voice, and if anyone heard him, no one came.

_I’m gonna have to get up._

_I can do that._

_I can… definitely… do that._

Exhausted from sprinting all over the city, aching from slamming into robot after robot, starving from the exertion, pain stabbing anew through the bullet holes at every twitch, it crashed over him all at once that he was alone. That for the first time in his life, he had no idea where his twin was, and she wasn’t there to help him up, and he couldn’t even tell her he was alive.

“Wanda?” he whispered.

His voice shook.

Not even a telepathic sense of reassurance answered him.

_I’m alone._

He looked around again, at the empty night pressing in around him, drawing his slightly less wounded leg up to his chest, as if that would make up for Wanda’s absence, his heart thudding in his chest, his breaths starting to come in short, sharp gasps.

Part of him even wanted to reach for Clint.

_No._

_Don’t panic._

_Breathe._

He clenched his eyes shut, drawing on the memories of happier times that had helped him through the experiments, when he was in pain and confused and Wanda was locked away in her own cell, her own haze, unable to reach for him either. He closed his eyes and remembered, remembered laughing over family dinners, curling up at night to the tune of their parents acting out their favorite bedtime stories, remembered when conquering the world meant beating Wanda to the top of the rundown old playground.

Gradually, his racing heart calmed.

When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes, forcing himself to take stock of his situation. _What do I need? I need…_

His screaming wounds and roaring stomach and bone-deep exhaustion all clamored for his attention.

_I need to get inside._

He wasn’t entirely sure if it was more important to clean his wounds before they could heal or eat some food so they _could_ heal, but neither option mattered much if he had no food or supplies, and getting inside one of these houses would hopefully get him both. He could figure things out from there. And maybe pass out on somebody’s couch instead of in the middle of the street.

_Which just means I need to get up. And walk._

He lowered his head, taking a moment to collect himself and silently bemoan how much this would hurt, then sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to his feet.

His entire body screeched in protest, but he did it.

_From running faster than the eye can see to just being proud I can stand. Great._

Logically, he knew he should head for the nearest house. With his legs trembling beneath him, he wasn’t sure he could make it even that far – trying anything else seemed stupid at best, and potentially deadly at worst.

But some instinct, some feeling pulled him away, drove him down the street instead, and he followed it, limping, one hand pressed to a wound on his thigh, the other hand tucked against his stomach. He clung to that feeling, to the hope it somehow seemed to offer, praying it wasn’t just some delusion of a dying man as he fought through the pain to reach the end of the road.

And when he did, when he rounded the corner, he saw a house, one single solitary house, with its lights still on, and he made a beeline for it, leaving a smear of blood on its fence when he grabbed it as he stumbled by, staggering up to the front door, hitting the doorbell with a shaking hand, slumping against the doorframe to wait.

For too long, for a small eternity, no one answered.

It took nearly all of his strength to ring the doorbell a second time, hoping he wasn’t about to collapse and die on a stranger’s porch, hoping someone would just _open the door_.

And when Wanda finally did, she looked as shocked as he felt.

His mouth fell open, a billion questions springing to his lips – _Why aren’t you in Sokovia? Why are you dressed like that? Why is Vision here? Where_ is _here?_ – but all he could do was stare.

Wanda’s grip on the door tightened, her skin going pale, and slowly, hesitantly, she started to reach out. Then her gaze fell to his wounds, to the blood staining his arms and legs and shirt, and she stiffened, swallowing, her hand closing into a fist. “You’re not real,” she muttered, her American accent jarring, starting to turn away.

His confusion lent him back his voice. “Why- why wouldn’t I be real?”

_What happened?_

The question made her freeze, and slowly, warily, she turned back, scarlet flickering in her eyes as she looked him over, her guardedness seeping away the longer she stayed silent, eyes widening in disbelief. “Pietro?” she whispered, as if saying his name would make him disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Were you… expecting somebody else?”

For some reason, the feeble attempt at a joke actually made her laugh, mania more than mirth bubbling up through the cracks in the sound. She reached out, her hand stuttering, still as if he would disappear any second, before gently, softly, tenderly, skating her fingertips across his cheek, brushing back a lock of pale hair, and only after the delicate touch didn’t do whatever she seemed to be expecting did she slide her hand down, pressing it more firmly against his neck, gathering up a bit of his shirt and twisting it around her fingers. “You are real,” she breathed, sounding more like herself with every syllable. “You’re- you’re _alive_.”

Pietro nodded, taking her hand into his, and when his fingers fumbled, she held on for him. “I’m here,” he promised. “I’m here.” He felt the ring on her finger digging into his skin, glanced up again at Vision and the house that seemed weirdly familiar. “Somehow. Wherever here is.”

She laughed again, and before even he could blink, she was throwing her arms around him, and the world melted away, shrinking down to just the two of them, all of his pain and fear and confusion banished by her touch, the same familiar warmth that had held him together through two endless days staring at a bomb a lifetime ago.

This time, when he fell, he fell into his twin’s arms, and nothing else mattered.

\-----

She didn’t know how it was happening. She didn’t know how he was _here_. She didn’t know how he had gotten here straight from Sokovia, somehow skipping the eight years in between, even though she remembered finding him in the helicarrier’s morgue, remembered burying his body, knew he had _been_ there. He had been _dead_. Irrevocably, undeniably, agonizingly _dead_.

But now he was here.

Here, in her arms, hurt and exhausted and starving and scared, but _alive_. Blessedly, beautifully, miraculously _alive_.

So when he lifted his arms to return the hug, holding her, reassuring her despite his confusion as to why she needed it, she didn’t care. She didn’t question it. Because he was _here_. Here, with her and Vision and their sons, in this perfect little world she would defend with every ounce of her power. Here, where she would never let anyone hurt him ever again.

And nothing else mattered.


End file.
